


Their Song

by Dog_Bearing_Gifts



Series: La Guitarra [3]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Guitar, One Year Later, Post-Canon, Post-Movie, Skull guitar, guitar alebrije
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-26 16:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14406471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dog_Bearing_Gifts/pseuds/Dog_Bearing_Gifts
Summary: Héctor and his guitar are finally reunited.





	1. Part One

Her mùsico is as happy as she is.

She hears it in his voice when he speaks, when he sings. She feels it as he plays. And why shouldn’t he be happy? It is Dìa de los Muertos, and unlike on the past ninety-six iterations of the holiday, he is with his family. Not in an office hearing a list of petty crimes read back to him, not stifled by failure and cempasùchil, not imagining the celebration being held in his absence.

No.

All of that pain and despair is gone now. He has pushed it back with new memories, good memories to drown out the bad; she has pushed it back through the song Miguel has written for the occasion, one that delights in a family reunited.

It is perfect.

It is just what he needs. What _she_ needs. To remember where they are, why they’re here. To remember that their time of banishment is over and all is forgiven and they’re a family again.

There are more songs beyond the one Miguel wrote. Hèctor plays alongside his grandson, and she thinks of the past, of a time when music was as much a part of their family as she was.

Yes.

Some things are good to remember.

******

There are some who call her by the wrong name.

She meets the first when they reach the re-entry gate just before sunrise. His eyes widen, his jaw comes dangerously close to the counter, he leans forward with both palms supporting his weight.

“De la Cruz’s guitar,” he breathes.

Before she can teach him the error of his ways, Imelda steps forward, one hand moving for her shoe. “That guitar belongs to my husband.” Every word is clipped, deliberate enough to make the agent shrink back. “I gave it to him as a gift.”

She warms with pride. Imelda, who first brought her home. Imelda, who won’t stand for lies. Imelda, who tried to erase Hèctor from existence.

No. She didn’t try. It was simply a consequence of her fury. When she learned the truth, she responded with the appropriate horror, chose to help him. Her choice nearly came too late, but it was soon enough. That is what matters.

“Lo siento,” the agent says, stamping the appropriate paperwork and waving them through. He says it again as Hèctor carries her past. “Lo siento mucho.”

*****

Héctor’s family is kind to him; they’re kind to each other and they accept him as one of their own, but this acceptance has been many years delayed. It has been unequivocal, but it was still withheld. He was still barred from their home, from their _knowledge,_ for nearly a century.

He plays for them now, one of the old songs. It’s good to play it properly, with all the words correct and none of the notes changed, with more emotion behind both of those things than a lust for recognition. It’s a humorous song, and the incident inspiring it is at the forefront of his mind; he smiles as he plays.

But he doesn’t come close to laughter. The song used to bring him to the brink of it, back before Ernesto took his life and everything else. Now, the knowledge of just how distant that improbable chase and its comically anticlimactic outcome are from the present keeps the full joy of it at bay.

His family still laughs when the song is over, blending it with applause and cheers. “You were right, Papá,” Coco says. “It _does_ sound better on that guitar.”

It doesn’t merely _sound_ better. It _is_ better. They were meant to play together, and they were meant to play songs like that one. Not sad ones, songs like the one he’s scribbled out and hidden where Imelda will never look for it, where he doesn’t have to look at it.

Julio gives her mùsico a long look before standing, making a cautious approach. “I…can I?”

Héctor slips off the strap they’ve found. Julio’s palm covers her strings.

She can feel some of what he feels, an echo of wonder, a shade of admiration. But she cannot see his memories. Can’t know what he knows as well as he knows it, can’t see through his eyes. 

He is not and never has been a musician. Communication is always easier with those who speak her language, and Julio has actively shunned knowledge of it. He can hear it, of course, can appreciate its beauty and the emotions that give it power, but its inner workings are a mystery to him.

It isn’t his fault. No, the blame lies with the woman who sent Miguel back with just enough time, only enough time, to save her husband.

“Heh,” Julio says. “It….it’s nice.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and she wonders if he feels that same melancholy ache she does.

*****

“Would you play for us?”

“I…don’t know.”

“You have your old guitar back! You should play.”

She hears variations on that conversation every time Héctor takes her out in public, which is often. He understands what she is now, though that isn’t the full reason he carries her strapped to his back. The bursts of fear she can’t control when he attempts to leave her at home have something to do with it.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You said you’d think about it _last_ time.”

There is a smile in the woman’s voice as she says it, but Héctor’s stew of trepidation and guilt and irritation is unaffected. “Still thinking.”

Imelda takes her husband’s arm. “He doesn’t _have_ to play for you.”

“I know.” There is more defensiveness there than those two words warrant. “I just thought it’d be fun to hear him.”

With a brief pause but not another word, he and Imelda move on. She wants to soothe him with a few memories of shows that went well, of audiences who wrapped his music around their shoulders and carried it with them into the evening, but the presence of his murderer keeps her from using them. He thinks about Ernesto, about that night, often enough. He doesn’t need those thoughts intruding now. 

They don’t walk far before another admirer blocks their way, a man this time. “Señor Rivera! I see you have de la—have _your_ guitar again!”

“I do.” The words are cheerful, but she can feel annoyance and apprehension beneath it.

“Will we get to hear it played?”

“Maybe later,” Héctor says. His cheer has slipped, but the man is as chipper as ever.

“I’ve always wanted to hear it—I loved hearing de la Cruz’s singing when I was alive, I never knew they were _yours,_ the songs I mean.”

Héctor gives the man a “Gracias” he doesn’t deserve.

“Ay, but they’re so _good_! Your songs! Even when _he_ was singing them, there was something about them—I always wanted to hear them played in person, but I never could.” He gives a nervous, expectant sort of laugh—more expectant than nervous, she thinks.

He deserves the next “Gracias” even less than the first, but he receives it anyway.

“You write the _best_ songs.”

Those words.

Those _words_. 

_“You write the best songs, mi amigo.”_

Those words, in another voice but with the same smile, said just as sincerely in a different city in the sunlight and the dust and that smile.

Said again after a show, making it sound like a compliment and not the threat it would become, the threat she’d see too late. 

_“I can’t do it without your songs, Héctor!”_

A toast. 

Tequila.

Héctor collapsing in the street.

That voice, reassuring and gentle and too _kind_ for what its owner had just done.

The stranger is smiling and she doesn’t know what’s behind that smile but she knows it can’t get loose and it’s going to because it always does, it always will—

Hèctor doesn’t even get to say his third “Gracias” before she strikes.


	2. Part Two

Save for Héctor and the family of the man attacked, Doctor Báez’s waiting room was empty. 

Injuries weren’t uncommon among the dead, but broken bones occurred with the highest frequency. The well-remembered wrapped them and waited for them to mend. Others wrapped them and waited for the pain to become familiar enough to ignore. In either case, the remedy could be administered quickly.

Ten minutes into their wait, Báez emerged with the news that Arturo Sanchez had regained consciousness, and would be kept under observation. 

Arturo’s family—a wife, a son two or three decades older than Héctor—clung to one another on the opposite side of the room, near the window. Héctor would have sat in a different room had he the option, but he didn’t and so the far corner was where he sat. It was still too close, too likely to serve as yet another reminder of what had happened, but it had given him the chance to apologize. They’d nodded mutely, not looking at him—a far more gracious response than he deserved.

Thirty minutes after Bàez’s first announcement, the doctor emerged again, turning a small smile on the Sanchez family. “We’re going to have him come in tomorrow to be certain,” he said, “but it seems there will be no permanent damage.”

Héctor let out a long breath, bowing his head. No permanent damage. Nothing that stuck.

He had only seconds to embrace the sense of relief before he saw, or perhaps felt, the presence of another standing nearby. Officer Quezada tilted his head toward the hall.

“No one is pressing charges,” he said once they were out of earshot.

“You—you’re sure?”

The officer’s mouth tipped without humor. “Señor Sanchez understands your alebrije acted on its own, and we have an entire plaza of witnesses who agree.”

 _Your alebrije._ The guitar’s attack was well outside the realm of human capabilities. Rumors of its true nature had remained, outside Héctor’s family, exactly that. Until she decided that a few well-intentioned remarks deserved to be rewarded with enough pain, or shock, or terror, or whatever she’d hit him with to cause unconsciousness.

Of all the ways the world could learn what he’d learned, this was not the one he would have chosen.

“They’re sure he’ll be okay?”

“Doctor Báez thinks so. He’s not going to take chances, but he’s confident Señor Sanchez will make a full recovery.”  

A moment passed in silence.

“You need to find out what’s going on, amigo.”

 _I know_ sounded too flippant, too sarcastic, despite being the truth. Héctor nodded instead, not wanting to meet the officer’s gaze.

“This can’t happen again, understand?”

Again, Héctor nodded, at the words and the unfinished threat within them. Or—not quite a threat. He wasn’t certain what to make of how this officer reminded him of the laws in existence, compared to the sterner warnings he’d received in the past. “I’ll…talk to her, I guess.”

Now it was the officer’s turn to nod, pat him on the shoulder, and turn back down the hall. Héctor looked to the Sanchez family, still huddled close but far less fearful than before; his son wore a small, relieved smile. The urge to apologize once more before leaving took hold again, but what more was there to say? There came a point when apologies ceased sounding like genuine attempts to make amends and began sounding like attempts to assuage a guilty conscience.

He gave them one last look before leaving, but neither seemed to see it.

******

Pepita was the first thing he saw upon crossing through the gate to the family home. She lay on the patio, chin resting on outstretched front paws and wings folded behind her; he thought she might be sleeping at first, but her eyes were open and he caught a flash of white. One massive paw was curled around the guitar.

“She _refused_ to leave,” Coco said. “We tried to take the guitar inside, but she growled at us.”

Héctor watched as Pepita nudged the guitar with her nose. She’d done that to him on occasion, more often to Imelda, sometimes pairing it with a purr.

He approached with caution, but Pepita uncurled her paw, loosening her grip on the guitar. She gave him a small, affectionate nudge as he took it in his hands.

When he’d first realized what she was, when fragments of conversations past flooded his mind and rearranged themselves into a greeting, the first emotion he’d felt, the first one he knew belonged to _her,_ was joy. She’d exulted in recognition, not unlike what Coco had done years ago when he correctly identified the subject of her latest scribble. No memories flitted through his mind; she hadn’t said a word beyond the joy she shared with him, but that was clear enough.

Now, she radiated fear. It had calmed somewhat, no longer curdled into aggression and rage, but anyone who said she was no longer frightened would be laughed out of the house. She relaxed a bit as he held her, but that soon gave way to a resigned sort of dread.

“I just want to talk about it.” 

****

He took the guitar to the guest room and closed the door, but he heard Imelda shooing everyone out of the area anyway. Whether it was for privacy or as a precaution, he wasn’t sure, but he appreciated it.

For long minutes, he sat on the bed, guitar in his lap. “Why did you attack him?” 

Two memories came to mind, one after the other. The same phrase— _“You write the best songs”—_ from two different men: Arturo Sanchez, and Ernesto.

He’d assumed correctly, then. “He wouldn’t have done anything.”

Incredulity mingled with fear.

“He was just….” Every comforting phrase he could think of rang hollow. _He was just giving a compliment_ could be said of Ernesto as well; _He didn’t know what he was saying_ could be countered with ease. “It was broad daylight. Middle of the plaza. He _couldn’t_ have tried anything.”

Fear. Shame. Anger. She knew he was in no danger _now._ In the moment, it had been another matter.

“I’m safe now,” he said. “It…it’s okay.”

Anger blended with fear and—was that despair?—hit him like a gust of wind. Before he had time to orient himself, memories sprang free, each paired with emotions.

 _“I’m sending you off with a toast.”_ Irritation, with a stab of aloof fondness. If he insisted on holding them up, she supposed a toast was the very least he could do.

Gathering his things, heading out the door. Victory. He was going home.

Pain gripping his stomach. Shock. Fear. 

Weakness, swaying. Thinking he had to stop the impending fall as his vision went black.

Complete and utter anguish.

There was more; he could tell by the barrage of hatred and disgust and despair that there were more memories she’d accumulated during her years with Ernesto, more memories she didn’t want. But they weren’t _his_ memories. He could feel the pain they caused but couldn’t see the source. Barring the most recent ones, his death was the last memory they shared.

Héctor couldn’t speak. The deluge subsided into quiet sorrow, and there was nothing he could say. He could hardly even think.

He didn’t know how long he held the guitar, how long he sat trying and failing to arrange his thoughts into something like comfort. He had to say something, anything, but he could only cradle her and try to keep his hands from shaking.

Sorrow gave way to guilt. He felt it as acutely as the pain in those memories—the pain, he realized, she’d been trying to hide. The pain he’d pushed aside, that he thought had been overtaken by the joy of reunion and reconciliation.

It was still there. It had always been there, winding its way through the present. He could keep it at bay for a while, but it had always surged back.

And the guitar understood. She’d carried the same pain, tried to let go, pushed it aside in favor of a smile when she could. Now her mask had broken and she didn’t know if it could ever be recovered. If anyone would believe her when it was.

The house wasn’t empty, but it was as close as it would get. There was no one nearby. No one to hear the song he’d written and stuffed beneath the mattress. The words that felt like honesty and sounded like an ungrateful insult.

The words his alebrije needed. The words _he_ needed.

Héctor set the guitar on the floor just long enough to retrieve the paper, smooth the sheets out on the bed. The lyrics seemed no cheerier than they’d been the day he wrote them. Lyrics about finding a home that would no longer receive you, walking for days only to have the door slammed in your face. They were no longer true, he’d told himself whenever his mind wandered back to the song. He’d found his home. He’d been welcomed inside. Victoria called him Abuelito with a twinkle in her eye.

But they’d _been_ true. They’d been true for the better part of a century, and that didn’t make them a lie now.

Héctor lifted the guitar again. Her sorrow and guilt was still there, but it had lost a few of its sharper edges. She hadn’t heard the song, but she knew of it. She’d seen it in his memories. She knew it had to be played.

The song felt like a slap in the face at first—not toward him, but toward Imelda, toward everyone who had forgiven him and brought him home to stay. He couldn’t bring himself to sing the words he’d written, not just yet. For now, there was only the music.

And that was enough.


End file.
